Get Up
by ripsofftricks
Summary: The blue northern skies were littered with sparse clouds as the world began to awake. They might not make it home tonight.


**Well, things have been pretty busy. The last fic that I published was in January and I swear this is the only one that I actually had the commitment to follow through and have my beta, **anglophilic**, edit it. School work has got me swamped for the past few months and my mid-year examinations are coming up next month, wish me luck yeah?**

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><p><span>Get Up<span>

The snow fell.

White flakes were descending quietly into the bright carpet of white on a winter's morning. Soft little flecks of silver in the air, glittering in the pale sunlight. The blue northern skies were littered with sparse clouds as the world began to awake.

The forest was tranquil, silent except for their heaving pants and untainted except for the stark footsteps sunk inches in the snow. Hopefully, the snowfall would cover their tracks long before the Germans realised their coup and sent a search team. They knew full well that if they were found, they weren't coming back.

Arthur quickened his footsteps and ignored the painful, bloody scrapes against dense fir trees as he rushed to keep sight of Alfred. After all, the American was the one that knew the plan. He was the one that broke them both out and it would not do to lose him.

The thought resonated in Arthur's head as he pushed himself to keep his pace, but he could already feel the burning ache in his calves and he wasn't sure if he could keep it up much longer. Surely, Alfred would not leave him in the lurch if he paused for a second?

Suddenly, Alfred stopped short, his sprint halting abruptly, nearly causing Arthur to crash into him. A profanity already on Arthur's lips, it was only Alfred's warning look that the biting remark died on his tongue. The deep frown and panicked look in his eyes was so foreign on the usually cheerful American; he must have noticed something deeply worrying.

Pulling Arthur down to a crouch, the both of them continued forward in absolute silence. Arthur could see every breath puff out in front of him and feel every inhale of bitingly cold air. A forest was not the place to be during a winter, and definitely not when equipped with clothes that have been worn thin from three months of constant use. Arthur swore he could feel the cold in his bones.

If the Germans didn't get them, the ice certainly will.

After about five minutes, Arthur finally realised what Alfred had heard. German words, flying rapidly between mouths, there had to be at least six people. That dreaded language, always spoken hastily and so heartbreakingly efficient. It always sounded like they were choking over their pronunciation. It was tough, hard, cutting and merciless. Commanding and loud, never betraying a squeak or a falter in tone. They were always gruff orders barked out before a unison of replies followed, all of them sounding as ruthless and uncaring as the first.

Half a dozen Germans were out here in the freezing cold woods. One thing Arthur was certain, they definitely weren't kindly farmers.

Alfred grabbed Arthur's hand and even in his icy grip, Arthur could feel the slight tremble. He jerked his head towards another direction and Arthur nodded his agreement with the direction chosen. Anywhere was better than being here, being so close to their captors.

Arthur could smell the blood on their hands.

Quirking a smile, Alfred dropped his hand before turning away. His smile was happy, victorious, gregarious and so confident, exactly like it was on one of his best days. And it was also utterly false.

Arthur knew that. He could sense the fear in his partner, and over the past few weeks, it was always covered up so perfectly with assurances and promises and bouts of bravado. Arthur could see through them all. Alfred was scared and so was he. They were both scared that they were going to be forgotten. They were scared that they would never get to go back home, not to America, not to England. They were scared that they were going to die in a foreign land, bleeding and in pain, vulnerable.

Arthur's fingertips brushed over the powdery snow, occasionally dripping crimson from the previously obtained cuts which he rubbed out hurriedly. They had been waddling about for quite a bit not and there was an ache building up Arthur's back and he gritted his teeth to resist standing up and stretching.

They still had a long way to go.

"Arthur!"

Face jerking up, Arthur responded immediately to the whisper hissed hurriedly out towards him. Alfred was gesturing wildly to him from a crevice under a levelled plane, jutting out from the snow. Despite the rush of blood to his head from the adrenaline, Arthur could hear the frenzied panic in Alfred's voice. The German voices were getting louder, Arthur could feel their breaths on his neck and he made a dash for it.

Vision obscured by thick snow filtering from the suddenly very thin trees, Arthur ran to the small shelter all the while trying to slow his palpitating heart down. Once he was close, Arthur grabbed his arm and jerked him under a little hollow in the ground where the snow hadn't settled yet, burrowing under the rock.

Closing his eyes to calm his erratic breathing and frayed nerves, he could only hear the blood rushing through his ears and Alfred's barely audible prayers. The Germans have found them, most probably. Nothing else would have made Alfred stop their progress. Once Arthur could breathe again, he joined Alfred in mumbling jumbled pleas for help as fear stirred in his gut.

"Shit."

Arthur and Alfred looked at each other. The German voices were back, louder and harsher than ever, coarse words looping through the heavy snow that engulfed everything. They were here.

Grinding his teeth, Arthur stopped a whimper from his throat. They were here. They were here. They were here. They were here. That thought was the only thing that raced through Arthur's mind. The Germans have tracked them down and now, they were going to kill them.

They were here.

Arthur tried to make it less obvious that his tears were brimming over his eyes and down his cheeks, biting his lip till he could taste the salt of his blood mixed with tears, not daring to make a sound. Alfred's fingers have entwined themselves with Arthur's, fingernails digging painful crescents on the back of Arthur's hand. If Arthur wasn't so distraught, he would have snapped at the complete futility of the action. It offered nothing but the reminder that if Arthur was going to die; Alfred was probably going to follow him a few short seconds later.

Abruptly, the rock shook and snow fell in front of their faces in a loud whoosh, heavy footsteps treading on the surface of the stone above them. Unexpectedly, a man started speaking in heavily-accented English.

"Give yourselves up."

Arthur closed his eyes.

Before this, Arthur would never have said that he was afraid of death. He had always figured that life was futile and the trick was to try to struggle through it despite the knowledge. Back home, every single one of his mates were gung ho over being sent to fight the Germans, all of them very keen to protect their homeland. Every night accompanied with diluted alcohol, there would be boasts about their supposed bravery and declarations against fear, against the enemy.

Arthur's breathing stilled, chest throbbing as his heart went into overdrive again. He could see the rifles now and next to them, the dining knife that Arthur took along with him seemed so dull and inefficient. They would probably be made to dig their own graves before standing over it as bullets pummelled their bodies.

Arthur was going to die and silent sobs wracked his lean frame.

There were still muffled thuds of footsteps all around them, obviously still waiting for the prisoners to surrender themselves. Unfortunately, neither of them planned to do that.

"Give yourselves up," the German repeated before continuing, "and we might even let you take your own lives."

This, along with a few German sentences, brought barking laughter that surrounded the two escapees from every direction. Wherever and however they tried to shrink away from the mocking chuckles, there just seemed to be more laughing and jeers.

Not that there was any space to move around to begin with. If Arthur wasn't already so cold, he swore he would have attempted to block out the sound with snow.

With all his other senses sharpened, Arthur knew exactly when Alfred started trailing his hand downwards and entangled his fingers with Arthur's. The warm pressure was a necessary comfort and it offered much more than the cold metal in Arthur's pocket. There was no spark, no electricity. There was nothing but the slightly damp warmth and the rough calluses on the other's hands. But that was enough for them.

It wasn't long before Alfred started to hum a tune, undoubtedly an effort to get Arthur to calm down. It was a foolish idea that could very well have gotten the both of them caught and Arthur hated him for it, for succeeding in comforting him and for having the nerve to. Alfred had hitches in the melody where his breath caught and most times, it was so soft that it was barely audible.

It was the sweetest thing that Arthur had ever heard. It was better than the most expensive opera or of the most exquisite voices known to man. Because this time, it meant something. It helped Arthur.

Even so, he still daren't open his eyes.

It felt like hours. It was as if you were in class on a sweltering afternoon and there was five minutes before the bell. Your brain counted down and every second was recorded in extreme detail. Everything, every sound, every smell was taken down and dissected, just to have something to do. Something to do before the Germans hauled them up and shot them stone dead.

They waited patiently with their hearts beating in their throats, their fates hanging in the balance. They listened to every heavy footstep, memorised the different paces. Their fears and anxiety fluctuated with every footfall. Their breathing was sometimes erratic, sometimes deep, but never making a sound. Oftentimes, they didn't breathe at all.

But the death sentence never did come. After a long while, all the footsteps faded into oblivion and for that moment, Arthur allowed that bit of hope to enter his heart.

It felt rich, that tiny piece of hope. As did the taste of triumph on his tongue, the inhale of the bitingly cold air, the freshest and the finest. He was going to make it through this. Arthur had to hold himself back from hoping more.

Arthur slowly let the pessimism in him gradually dampen that small little spark. It would not do to be over-confident. The battle might have been won, but the war had just begun. They had to find a way to make their way out of these German forests, the situation was to be treated with utmost trepidation and it would be more beneficial if every sound set alarm bells ringing.

It was a long while before they even dared to twitch a muscle and it wasn't till Alfred shook him that Arthur allowed his body to start shifting again. If Alfred thought that the enemy was well and truly gone then it must be so. Arthur trusted him.

Even with his life.

"What's the pl-an?"

It hurt to talk. Arthur's throat was parched dry and his voice cracked. Scooping some snow in his palm, Arthur waited for it to melt in his numb hands and sipped at it softly.

"We find my plane. They shouldn't have found her. We find her and we fly home."

Arthur was tempted to correct Alfred. They were to fly back to base, but not to Alfred's home. Alfred's real home was back in America, the land of the free as he liked to deem it. The air-strip where they were supposed to report to two weeks ago was situated in Manchester, _England_.

"She'll be miles away! We're not even sure we were running in the right direction."

"We find her. Have faith."

Arthur was unable to further argue with that. Alfred was right though. The path to their salvation was through the air. Alfred's plane held enough fuel for a two-way journey, if they could make it back to her unscathed and if she was unharmed then…

They would escape.

The moment they pulled themselves out of the crevice, they ran. They didn't allow themselves to stretch or to regain their bearings for they could not guarantee that the Germans were not feinting. The both of them ran in the supposed direction of Alfred's plane blindly.

Arthur didn't know how long they were running for. They had regular intervals between walking and sprinting but the minutes ticked by unnoticed. But the elements around them changed, and Arthur wondered whether the weather was tied to their emotions. The further the distance between them and the Germans, the lighter the snow fell and eventually, there were even faint rays of sun.

It was Arthur who spotted her first. The faint sliver of grey in between the trunks of trees was easily missed, but Arthur was looking. As he neared, the sight of the small fighter jet brought a smile on his face, and relief flooded into his chest. A visible grin was stretching wide on Alfred's face. Even the sun shining on the snow could not be compared to the light back in his eyes.

The both of them dusted the snow off the best they could and ran their hands all over the icy metal. Arthur took the chance to dig out some of the clothing he knew Alfred stuffed somewhere in the jet. Successfully pulling out a wad of questionable attire, Arthur threw to Alfred one of his many bomber jackets.

"They took my favourite one…" Alfred said softly, like it was an afterthought as he pulled the bomber jacket on.

"Shut up and be grateful that you're not going to freeze yourself stiff when we're up in the air." _When_ and not _if_, because Arthur refused to let himself think otherwise.

The aircraft that would fly them back to Britain looked to be undamaged and untouched since the day they left the dear here. If Arthur had known how difficult it would be to make his way back to her side, he might never have left.

Alfred seemed to have no other thought than the fact that he was back to his jet. He gave her propeller a whirl, smirking proudly as it spun slowly without a single hitch. He looked exactly like a proud parent looking over his child.

"Verdammt."

It sounded like a whisper and Arthur wasn't even sure if it was a word carried by the wind or because he had been hearing it every day for the past fortnight.

The relief was gone instantly, they both realised that they weren't out of danger just yet. The urgency coupled with a few shots of hope pumping in their veins, they jumped back into the jet and allowed their energy to dissipate a little.

The atmosphere turned solemn again, the crisp air clearing their heads as reality and reason returned from their short reprieve. They might have found the jet fighter but whether she worked remained a question. Fuel was not a concern, even if she lacked fuel to make a full journey back, anywhere was better than here, being so close to a Nazi prison camp. But if she couldn't even start her ascend to the skies…

All of their plans would grind to a slow, devastating halt.

From there they could only go forth on foot, with no inkling as to which direction to travel in and the chances of finding a soul friendly to the Allied forces were scant. Arthur prayed that once Alfred turned the ignition, he would be able to feel the familiar vibrating buzz under his feet.

Alfred turned back, twisting his body awkwardly around to face Arthur. His blue eyes were riddled with worry but there was still a great deal of faith etched in them. Alfred had tried to share this faith, hoping that if the both of them believed hard enough, it would come true.

Unfortunately, the hard touch of reality had left its mark in Alfred's face and Arthur could not bring himself to believe it whole-heartedly when he was staring at Alfred. His expression was no longer gullible and stupidly naïve. He looked grounded; his head was no longer in the clouds.

Alfred was painfully aware of their situation and no delusional wishes were going to pull him out of that this time. If Alfred couldn't even find it within to deceive himself, he wasn't succeeding in convincing Arthur and it was obvious that the both of them were small and scared.

Then, Alfred couldn't keep the bright smile up any longer, his face crumpled. The grimace that conveyed his true feelings influenced Arthur more than the cheery façade. Because there was genuinely nothing else to do but to give it one last shot.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

Alfred leaned closer, wanting to say something, but he didn't say a word. His eyes were urging, trying to communicate via sheer will alone. Arthur was tired, too tired to tolerate hesitance and uncertainty.

"Spit it out! We haven't much time to lose, Jones."

"I just wanted you to know—"

Arthur hummed in impatience, eyes trained on the controls.

"—you might not make it home tonight."

It was cruel, the way Alfred said it. Arthur wouldn't have minded that much if he had sneered and scoffed. If only the bloody American had learnt how to read the atmosphere and actually did mock the Englishman's hope. Because Arthur would retort defensively and then maybe, he would believe in his own wishful thinking.

But Alfred did not know Arthur as well as he'd like to. They have only been paired up on this mission and this one alone and judging by the success of this assignment, they would very likely never be paired together again. Thank god for that.

"What was the point of that? Start the engine now!"

When Arthur looked at Alfred's despondent and crestfallen face, he lost all hope. All that he saw was endless hills of snow, barbaric Germans, the feel of grime on skin, a ravenous want for food, and the perpetual knowledge of their failure. All of that, imprinted upon his face. Before all of this, Alfred hadn't even known what it was like to be hungry.

Alfred believed that they would never fly out of here, and now, Arthur believed the same. Unfortunately for the Germans, Arthur did not admit defeat all that easily.

"Get that long face out of my sight and start the engine."

Alfred stilled. "Allow me a few moments before my whole life comes crashing."

"Your life burned into soot the moment we were captured by the Krauts, now's not going to make a difference. Start the engine."

"I'd thought you'd understand."

"I do. I understood that you've given up before even trying. Prepare to fly or get out because my country is being attacked and my people are dying! Start the engine!"

"Our country."

"Sorry?"

"Our country. I'm fighting for her too. I'm fighting to keep her safe."

"Then you had better not abandon her."

Alfred grinned with more zeal, albeit a little sadly and he turned back to the front, hands instantly flying to the controls. His fingers seemed to have memorised the aircraft for they went exactly where everything was, like they remembered the feeling. The feeling of flying back home.

The world melted into a blur as they left everything behind.

End.

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><p><strong>As usual, all acknowledgements are done at the bottom. The inspiration for this song is Get Up by Barcelona, listen to it. I may have gotten the exact meaning of the song wrong in context to the story but the song reminded me of snow and uncertainty so this is what I came up with. <strong>

**Hope this was a lot less dramatic than all my previous ones. I think I get too enthusiastic in writing sometimes and include too many things that might be better if it was unknown.  
><strong>


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